Between Brittle Pages

Between Brittle Pages
.



If I find a strand of your fair
    hair locked between brittle pages of verse
    mounted to the dynamics of social integrity
    and the misbehavior of mankind,

    I will find you.

I will feel your DNA captured mid words
    chauffeured past witnessed wreckage
    on the edge of streets that might have been
    better swept with a clean broom

    after a midnight rain.

And your mind, a mining train in central station,
    is sensation portrayed in countless records;
    written words traced on rugged faces
    of iron miners and liberal politicians

    who remember.

I will smell your dusty pages, breathe in your cement
    pencil-lead scent of scribbled words
    smudged on paper coffee cups
    tucked deep into a tattered briefcase,

    and I will inhale you.

    I will know  - you.
.
.
.




          I will know you
          when opened book covers
          reveal your heart song,

          and when I weep within the rhyme scheme of your words
          I will know it is you who has touched me -

          immortal.



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** For every writer who wishes a bit of immortality through their written word.